


I Think You'll Understand

by QueenOfAllCorgis



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: BSL - British Sign Language, Deaf!Paul, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25491778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfAllCorgis/pseuds/QueenOfAllCorgis
Summary: Paul was deaf.Not slow, not simple, not stupid.He was deaf and he played music, just a bit differently._A collection of one-shots
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 120
Kudos: 316





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been floating around in my head for a while. I am hard of hearing myself and got to thinking about music. Hope you like it :)

Paul had read once that there were waves all through the air, that sound traveled on them like leaves on a breeze. He liked to imagine it, imagine the cresting waves as they crashed over him and the sounds rang strong and true in his head. 

But it didn’t work quite like that. 

There had been pain, pain, pain as he burned, burned, burned and then...nothing. The world went as quiet as someone lifting the needle from the record. The fever left, the rash faded but his hearing never came back. 

As a child, confused and lost he raged. He screamed and spat out every curse he knew, hating  _ hating _ that the words evaporated into the air. The only proof he had that sound came from his mouth at all was the heartbreak on his mother and father’s face.

It hurt to lose something so precious. It hurt to know that he would never hear music again. 

Paul locked himself in his room, hiding from his parents under the blankets and closing his eyes to pretend that he was floating in  _ nothing. _ He wasn’t missing anything if he was in nothing. 

Then the blanket pulled back and he looked up to see his mother’s sad, kind smile. In her hand was a shiny, new guitar. It even still smelled of fresh cut wood and polish. It was something that Paul would have been over the moon to get such an incredible gift but...now it seemed cruel. 

He scowled as his mother pulled him into her lap like a baby, he wasn’t a baby. Mike was a baby. He was the one who screamed silent screams and cried fat tears all the time. Not Paul. Then his mother put the guitar in his lap and held his hands in hers. Paul tried to struggle away, some mean part in him wanting to smash that stupid guitar on the ground until it broke into a million, billion pieces. 

Then something strange happened. 

His mother’s fingers stroked over the strings and he  _ heard. _ Paul stiffened in her arms and stared down at the string as it vibrated and then settled into stillness. It had been small but he had heard. 

It wasn’t the hearing he remembered. It started in his fingers, the vibration starting in his fingertips and traveling up his arm to settle in his chest. The vibrations continued, growing stronger and stronger. The waves of sound rose and rose into a tidal wave, crashing over him and leaving him breathless. 

He needed more. 

It took time but Paul learned that there was more to listen to if you really focused on those waves. At night he would press his fingers to his throat and hum remembered sounds, trying to memorize the feeling. He would hold his hand over a crackling pan, feeling the waves from the heat and imaging the sound before he was yanked away. 

He learned what his father sounded like when he cried as he placed a hand on his back, trying to be stoic and brave as they lowered his mother into the ground. 

He lived his life through feeling. Feeling the rumble of the bus under his legs, the way the pen scratched across his paper as he scrambled to finish his homework, and the way the old material compressed next to him as someone sat down. 

Paul glanced up to see a boy giving him a shy smile. He was slim and gangly, looking like his limbs had grown faster than he could keep up with them. His mouth moved, sound traveled and Paul’s ears remained unresponsive. 

He gave the boy an awkward smile and quickly scribbled something on the back of his paper, holding it up to the boy. 

_ I’m sorry. I’m deaf, I can’t hear you. _

The boy’s eyes flicked across the paper, heavy brows furrowing. This was when people gave him an awkward smile and ignored him, sitting tense. He was used to it. It was fine. 

But then the boy reached out a questioning hand and took the pen and paper. He carefully wrote and handed it back.

_ My name is George. _

Something bloomed in Paul’s chest. It wasn’t often that people adapted to him, they usually expected him to try to force himself into a world that didn’t have a place for him. But George, this kid by his side, didn’t even hesitate. 

It was nice.

They would write back and forth on the bus together, pointing out girls they thought were pretty and complaining about teachers. Paul didn’t really have friends, not many people had stuck around after his illness. 

George stuck around. 

He didn’t blink when Paul shyly showed him the guitar. He just watched as Paul let his fingers ride along the vibrations and a slow smile spread across his face. It was so easy with him, to let George take his hand and place it over his own as he showed Paul a few things on his own guitar. 

He was the first person who treated him like a person, not like some pathetic thing to pout at and then shove away when things got too real. 

Then he brought him to a church fete, scribbled notes saying that there was going to be a band there that was amazing. Paul could tell by the light in his eyes that George was wanting to get into a band but he was always turned away because he was too young.

It was funny what assumptions people made about others. 

The day was hot and too sunny, making Paul squint a bit as he followed George through the crowd. They smiled at the older ladies passing out plates of food and moved over to where the band was setting up. 

They didn’t look like anything special really...just a bunch of young guys with instruments checking and rechecking the wires leading to the speakers. Paul liked performances with speakers, it was a way for him to really feel the music. 

A boy in a checkered shirt and lopsided grin sauntered up to the microphone and leaned in. Paul frowned a bit, glancing at George to see him staring at the boy with stars in his eyes. Once again, Paul felt that creeping feeling of being left out. He couldn’t see the boy’s lips behind the microphone and if he leaned back he spoke like he was speaking the words through gritted teeth, too difficult to even try and read lips. 

Paul reached into his back pocket and tapped George’s shoulder with it. The younger boy glanced away, blinked a bit and then took it before writing quickly.

_ They’re called the Quarrymen. Lead singer is John Lennon, he’s a legend.  _

A legend huh?

Paul nodded and turned back to look at the band. They had started playing, the speakers loud and beat settling into his chest. Lennon was really something else, winking at the crowd and pulling them in with his sly smiles and sharp eyes. His fingers also moved across the strings quickly, each movement sending vibrations into the speakers and then settling in Paul’s ribs. 

He wanted to be up there.

He wanted people to dance to the music he made, to feel the music under their feet.

He was going to be in that band. 

George’s eyebrows raised when he passed him the note, words written firmly and letters pressed deep into the paper. 

_ I’m going to play with them. _

Dark eyes met his, and George gave him a smile before clumsily signing “me too”. 

The set was well received by the crowd, the younger people dancing and the older folks tapping their feet along to the music. They watched until the band hopped off stage, laughing and shoving each other playfully. George squared his skinny shoulders up and waved Paul on, walking up to them. 

His bravado faded slightly when Lennon turned towards him, eyebrows raised. It made Paul realized how young he and George looked, both in their slightly too big shirts and too small shoes. Lennon looked like a grown man, looking down at them with disinterest. 

It was always difficult to lip read when someone wasn’t speaking directly at him. He could see George talking animatedly, hands fluttering a bit at his side and Lennon just watched. The enthusiasm waned as the older boy just reached into his back pocket, pulled out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. 

The smoke obscured his mouth even further as he answered whatever George had said. Lennon’s gaze moved towards him, his lips turned down a bit and he mumbled something around his cigarette. Beside him, George’s shoulders stiffened and his eyes narrowed and Paul knew  _ exactly _ what he had asked. 

_ What’s wrong with him? _

Embarrassment made his cheeks burn as George answered and other members of the band turned to stare at him. Lennon’s lips curled around a mouthful of smoke and he said something, eyes sharp and mean. George nodded and mimed writing, not noticing how Paul ducked his head when he passed over the notepad. 

_ They want to hear us play. _

They want to make fun of the young kid and disabled freak. That was the reality of it all. Maybe George was a bit young because he didn’t see the gleam in Lennon’s eyes, the way the other boy’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter. 

Fine. He would play their game. 

They followed the band back into the backroom of the church. Various pieces of equipment and instrument cases were strewn across the floor and Paul gripped the strap of his own guitar a little tighter. Where most of the boys practically threw their instruments into the cases, Lennon took his time to lay it in gently with care. 

Then he turned to face them and held out his hands in a ‘go ahead’ motion before leaning against a table. 

George was practically vibrating with excitement as he pulled out his guitar but Paul was a little more subdued. Was this about to be a crushing blow? Would they even let him play before laughing them out of the room?

George played first and Paul couldn’t help but smirk as the smiles faded from the other boy’s faces and was replaced by astonishment. He understood though, George really was incredibly talented. He finished and by the look on his face Paul knew that he was proud of what he had done. 

Then Lennon started talking and George’s face fell slightly. Although it was difficult, Paul focused on the older boy’s lips and managed to decipher a few words from around the cigarette. 

Baby.

Grow up.

Someday.

He grimaced as George’s hands dropped from the guitar, just letting it hang around his neck. With a short tap on his friend’s shoulder, Paul motioned to the door and tipped his head towards it.  _ Let’s go. _

They were one step in before George turned back, caught by something said. He grabbed Paul’s arm, eyes hard and sure as he pointed to his guitar before fingerspelling  _ p-l-a-y. _

Paul wanted to shake his head, to go home with George and eat the biscuits his mother always had out, but then he caught sight of the infuriating smirk from Lennon. He wasn’t done embarrassing them. He didn’t get the satisfaction of shoving George’s bad guitar playing in his face because he wasn’t bad. Something in Paul reared up at that, wanting to prove him wrong. 

So, he took his own guitar and lifted it. Lennon burst out laughing, turning to the other boys as he mimed holding a guitar upside down. Next to him, George snapped something that Paul didn’t need to hear to understand.  _ He’s left handed idiot. _

He had never really played for anyone else before. George and his da of course told him that he sounded great but what if he was just playing nonsense? How would he even know?

But, he wasn’t no coward. 

Paul let his fingers drift across the strings, plucking and feeling the vibrations under his fingertips. The movement felt like dancing, like he was moving across the strings himself. They traveled up his fingers and settled between his ribs, filling him entirely with sound he couldn’t hear. 

And then he was done. 

With a shaky breath, Paul let his guitar hang from the strap and glanced up to see Lennon staring at him with his cigarette dangling from parted lips. His fingers still tingled from the strings and he lifted his chin with a smirk of his own, nodding to George as they turned around to walk out. 

Then George stopped again and Paul turned to face Lennon. The older boy looked softer, eyes having cleared of ice and sneer gone. He hesitated before starting to talk with overexaggerated words and hand gestures, making Paul raise his eyebrows in amusement. 

He glanced to George who fingerspelled again  _ p-l-a-y-l-a-t-e-r _

It took a moment for him to figure out what he meant before he glanced back to Lennon and nodded, giving him a little shrug. He left the church feeling like he was walking on air. 

Bless George but he didn’t give up. The younger boy dragged him to rehearsals and the Quarrymen didn’t seem bothered. They seemed to accept the pair of them lingering about, sometimes George playing along. 

However Lennon, or John which he had awkwardly scribbled onto Paul’s notebook, kept his focus on Paul. Sharp eyes followed his movements and watching him curiously, leaning in when Paul did play a bit. 

Finally, he mimed writing and Paul passed over his notebook with a smile. John stared at the paper for a bit, tapping his chin with the pen before writing.

_ How do you do it? _

Paul smiled as he read and strummed a few notes, trying to figure out how to explain. He eventually reached over and took John’s hand, pressing his fingers into the strings and playing again. With an awkward hand gesture meant to show the strings vibrating, he shrugged. 

There was a beat before John grabbed the pen again and this time it flew across the page. The older boy pressed the notebook towards him with a smile.  _ That’s amazing! I never thought about how the string felt different! _

A blush colored Paul’s cheeks and he took the pen himself.  _ It’s pretty much all you can do when you can’t do anything else.  _

He expected the now familiar pity, the way people would shrink away and avert eye contact, but that wasn’t what happened. John just nodded, looking thoughtful and took the pen back.  _ You should join the band.  _

And he agreed. 

_ John asks a lot of questions about you.  _ George wrote to him as they walked home that night. Paul raised his eyebrows.  _ I know he asked you to join the band. _

At that, Paul winced. He knew that George was still a bit hurt that he had been turned away because of his age. Fiddling with the edge of the paper he scribbled a little  _ I’m sorry. _

George gave him a little smile and shoved at his shoulder. Relief flooded through Paul as he pushed him back before looping an arm around his shoulders. 

It wasn’t long before they asked George to join anyway, his talent speaking for itself. Him joining really was for the best. The other members of the band shied away from Paul, unsure how to deal with someone who was deaf, but not George or John. George would show him the guitar riffs by placing his hand on his and playing through the bit.

John seemed endlessly fascinated with Paul, watching him carefully like he was trying to solve a puzzle. The questions he asked Paul, written at a weird angle across the notebook, would have been invasive for anyone but John. He wasn’t shy, wasn’t subtle, and very brash.

_ Is it hard to dirty talk to a bird when your hands are otherwise occupied? _

_ Is there anything else wrong with you? _

_ When you’re mastrubating can you hear yourself moaning and such? Can anyone else hear you do it and you don’t realize it? _

Paul just rolled his eyes and wagged his finger in John’s face, getting a teasing grin in response. It was easy being around John. He didn’t make him feel less, didn’t treat him like a child. He defended him to the others, especially when he thought Paul wasn’t looking. 

He was waiting for John to write down another foul question and glanced up when he realized that it was taking a while. That was when he realized that John had flipped back through the book and was reading something. Paul stood on his tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. 

_ Well, her clothes were not expensive _

_ Her hair didn’t always curl _

_ I don’t know why I love her _

_ But I love my little girl. _

Paul snatched it back, cheeks burning but John just lifted his hands in surrender. Then, he tapped the notebook and pointed to Paul’s chest, raising his eyebrows. Did he write that? Yes he did. Paul nodded and John’s face split into a huge grin. 

_ Come to my house after practice. I wanna show you something. _

George raised his eyebrows when Paul explained why they couldn’t walk home together as always but didn’t comment. It was a quick walk to the little house tucked away on the street but John seemed light on his feet, guitar slung over his shoulder. 

They entered the house, John’s hand wrapping around Paul’s wrist and pulling him up the stairs. Halfway up John stopped and rolled his eyes, turning them to face a stern looking woman. 

John introduced him, his mouth forming the sounds that made up Paul’s name. Then the woman said something and John said something Paul always recognized,  _ he can’t hear. _

The woman’s face shuttered a bit, cheeks turning pink, and John tugged on his wrist. Before he was pulled up the stairs he remembered his manners, something his father always impressed on him. 

The words felt foreign in his mouth, like stretching out a muscle that had been ignored for so long. “It is nice to meet you.”

John looked surprised but yanked him into a small bedroom covered in posters and magazine pages. He shoved aside some balled up papers and art pencils before grabbing a notebook and writing in it, holding it up.  _ You can talk? _

Paul grimaced at that and took out his own notebook, pen hovering over the page before he answered.  _ I don’t like to. I know it sounds wrong. _

Cocking his head, John read through that a few times before raising his eyebrows and writing a response.  _ I bet you can sing. _

A breathy laugh escaped him before Paul could stop it, making John grin. He shook his head as John shuffled through his own papers and handed them to Paul. 

Songs.

So many songs and snippets of songs. 

He looked up to see John smiling so brightly at him, pointing to himself and then to Paul. Writing songs together. Paul couldn’t think of anything better. He nodded vigorously and they took a seat on the bed, notebook balanced between their knees as they started writing their songs. 

It became an almost daily thing, Paul coming over to John’s house or John coming over to his. Mimi nodded at him and brought up snacks which John rolled his eyes at but clearly appreciated. 

Jim seemed a bit more suspicious, staring John down as he signed to Paul.  _ This kid okay? What’s he up to? _

_ We’re just writing songs. _

His father’s lips pursed and he shook his head, disapproval written all over his face. Paul knew that John didn’t have the best reputation. He was the wild child whose father split and his free spirited mother put him in the care of his aunt. Paul had heard about the fights and how John was close to flunking out of school despite how smart he was. 

He got why his father was so protective but he didn’t need to worry. 

They were in the middle of looking through a song they had been thinking through when John wrote something in the margin, small and cramped.  _ What was your da doing with his hands? _

Frowning, Paul tried to remember before it hit him.  _ Sign language. It’s how he talks to me.  _

A little furrow appeared between John’s brows and he tapped the pencil on the edge of the notebook.  _ I thought it was something you and Geo made up. _

Paul laughed a little at that, trying this time to make sure no sound came out.  _ No. It’s a real language.  _

_ You ever think about getting one of those little things for your ears?  _ John wrote and Paul scrunched up his nose. He had seen them, the pieces that fit into ears and connected to bulky devices around the next. 

_ They’re expensive.  _ He shrugged, the word coming out a bit slow. His father had looked into hearing aids when they became more readily available but then his mother passed and...there were other priorities. 

John nodded, taking the pencil.  _ When we’re rich and famous I’m going to buy you some.  _

This time the flutter in his chest has nothing to do with music. 

They turned back to the page, reading over the lyrics. From the corner of his eye Paul could see that John was most likely humming a part, his throat working over the sounds. Concentration made his eyes squint a bit and he tapped the pencil. 

_ You’re going to need to sing. _

Paul rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Instead of writing another response, John grabbed both of Paul’s hands and lifted them. He pressed the fingers of one to his throat and put the other in the same place but oh John’s. Then he hummed and Paul felt the vibration under his fingertips. 

At first, Paul just shook his head and tried to pull his hand away. Stubborn as always, John kept it there and turned pleading eyes towards him. Swallowing down his embarrassment, Paul tried to match the vibration. He couldn’t hear the sound he was making but it felt the same. 

And seeing how wide it made John smile made him want to try again. 

It was still awkward and a few minutes later he pulled his hand away, shaking his head. Paul would never sing in front of people. Humming next to John was one thing but having everyone hear sent a spike of anxiety through him. 

He shuffled back, curling his fingers around the neck of his guitar as John bent over the notebook and wrote. His pencil flew fast enough that little shards of lead flicked off. Warm eyes met his, and John pushed the notebook closer. 

_ Oh yes, I’ll tell you something _

_ I think you’ll understand _

_ When I’ll say that something _

_ I want to hold your hand _

It was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Paul felt a bit breathless, staring down at the hastily written words. He looked over it a few times before John took his hand and pressed it against his throat, humming a rhythm. Paul could feel how it moved higher and lower, the notes sweeping. 

He moved his gaze from John’s throat to his eyes and finally noticed just how close they were. The older boy just nearly nose to nose with him, eyes locked on his. A strange, powerful feeling filled the air reminding Paul of the music that filled his chest everytime he played. 

And then John leaned back, breaking the strange spell. 

_ You’ll have to sing that at our next show.  _ John wrote next to the lyrics and Paul rolled his eyes. Snagging the pen from his hand.

_ It’s just a bit of fun. I’m not playing live.  _

John gave him a sharp look and raised his eyebrows as if in challenge. 

The full feeling in his chest remained. 

It lingered between them, a tension that was always in the background but never spoken about. It changed things. Smiles shared during rehearsal felt different, gazes taking a bit too long, and touches lasting. 

It was confusing and honestly a bit scary. Paul didn’t know what to make of the fluttering in his stomach or the way his fingers tingled as they practiced Paul’s singing. He just knew he liked the way John made him feel, like he was more than the sad label people forced on him. 

And then something terrible happened. 

Paul glanced up from his math book, raising his eyebrows as his father hovered right outside his room. Jim’s hands fluttered a bit, looking like he was trying to find the words.  _ That was a call about your friend John. _

Fear gripped Paul’s stomach. Had John been arrested? He was always getting into stupid fights. God, what if he was hurt?  _ What? _

_ His mother...  _ Jim’s hands stilled and a series of emotions flickered across his face.  _ His mother was hit by a car. She’s dead. _

Paul blinked, brain seeming to stop. His mother was dead? The kind, fiery woman who listened to their songs and clapped? She had never talked to him in that slow, uncomfortable way. She never treated him like he was anything different. God, where was John?

Without another word, Paul jumped to his feet and shoved them into his shoes. Jim stepped aside as he jogged down the stairs and out the door. It was hot and muggy, sweat making his shirt stick to his back. 

John’s street was empty, the houses just starting to turn their lights on in the early dusk. He hurried up to the door and knocked frantically, feeling the sting of the wood against his knuckles. There was a long, long wait before the door creaked open and a red eyed Mimi looked out at him. 

No words were exchanged, she just pointed up the stairs and he nodded before taking them two at a time. John’s door was shut and he didn’t open when Paul knocked. After a moment of internally warring with himself, Paul pushed the door open and stepped in. 

John was laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He would have thought the older boy was asleep if not for the shining in his eyes. He didn’t even move until Paul was right by his bed, slowly turning his gaze to face him. 

What could he say?

What could he do?

Paul hesitated before climbing onto the bed next to John. He knew the feeling of pain, of loss. At least with his mother they were expecting it. After months of watching her waste away, it was almost a blessing to see her out of pain. John had a perfectly healthy mother one moment and she was gone the next. 

The bed hitched a bit and he glanced over to see tears streaming down John’s cheeks. It only took a gentle touch to the arm before John completely broke, heavy sobs wracking his entire body and he turned to bury his face into Paul’s chest. 

Paul paused before wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight. In no time at all his shirt was wet with tears but he just held him and shushed gently, breath hissing past his lips. 

A sharp quick moment startled him before he glanced down to see John’s arms jerking. One hand was flat, palm up, and the other made a loose fist with his thumb pointing up. He kept pressing the fit into his hand before pulling it sharply into his chest. 

At first, Paul thought he was hurting himself as his hands continued to thud into his chest. He tried to take his hands but John yanked free and continued. It was then, with a cold sinking feeling that he realized what John was doing. 

He was signing. 

He was signing  _ help me _ .

“Oh,” the word passed through his lips but he couldn’t worry about how his voice sounded or how the words came out. “John. John.”

John just shook against him, repeating the sign again and again. 

As gently as he could, Paul slipped his hand into John’s and squeezed. He pulled the hand to his chest and started to hum, trying to remember the notes John had shown him. It was when John’s terrible sobs softened to trembling that he started to sing.

“Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something. I think you’ll understand,” he sang softly as John sagged against him. “When I’ll...say that something. I want to hold your hand.”

He felt vibrations under his hand on John’s chest, knowing that he was quietly singing along. Paul felt his own eyes burn with tears and nodded. They then lay there, hands clasped over John’s chest. 

“I want to hold your hand,” Paul sang out quietly. 

There wasn’t anything else to say or do. John’s heart was breaking and all Paul could do was do his best to make sure he didn’t shatter. 

It was the least he could do. 

John rolled a bit, grabbing a notebook  _ their notebook _ from beside the bed and started to write. The page was already dotted a bit with tears, abandoned lyrics smeared.  _ Why does everyone leave? _

A tightness squeezed his throat and Paul blinked a few times, taking the pen with shaky hands.  _ I don’t know.  _

John read over the words and nodded, wiping his eyes. The pen hovered a bit before it slipped through his fingers and fell onto the bed. Paul understood, sometimes there weren’t words. Signed, written, spoken or heard, there weren’t words for this. 

He hesitated before taking the pen up and writing as carefully as he could.  _ My mum was the first one who learned signing in our family. My da didn’t want to at first. He didn’t want to admit his son was broken. _

John shook his head minutely as he read over his shoulder. 

_ When she died no one talked to me for so long. I won’t leave you in the quiet.  _

He glanced over to John, taking in the hurt and rawness in his eyes. The older boy took in a shaky breath and bowed his head a bit. A trembling hand lightly touched his chin and moved outward.  _ Thank you. _

Paul just nodded, covering John’s hand with his own. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul's first live concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of loving this verse so I have a lot of ideas for continuing it. I'm also happy to fill any prompts you might have :)
> 
> Find me @QueenOfAllCorgis on Tumblr as well!

People said nerves felt like butterflies in the stomach.

No true.

It was like a pit of snakes instead. No light fluttering here. The twisting, clenching, icy fear in him actually made him nauseous. Bile burned at the base of his throat and he swallowed it down convulsively. 

Oh God, what if he puked on stage.

That added a whole other layer of fear. 

Backstage was a mess of people shoving past each other, thick smoke, and dim lights. George let out a stream of smoke, tilting his head back to blow it towards the ceiling. There must have been a look of absolute horror on his face because the younger boy quirked an eyebrow at him and signed  _ You okay? _

Once again, Paul was relieved that his friends were good enough to learn sign for him. 

Paul curled his right hand into a loose fist and held it to his chest, lightly scratching at it with the pointer finger. Thick brows pulled together and he had to fingerspell it instead “ _ n-e-r-v-o-u-s”.  _

At that George nodded in understanding and then shook his head. He put both hands into fists, thumbs out and moved them in opposite directions  _ “amazing _ .”

Paul rolled his eyes, glancing to his side when John touched the back of his arm lightly. The older boy was all energy, bouncing lightly on his toes and grinning brighter than he had ever seen him. 

His hands flew, fingers spread wide as he pressed the thumbs into his chest  _ “ready?” _

Was he ready? They had practiced enough that he could probably play in his sleep but it didn’t feel like enough. It wasn’t enough to go and play in front of a crowd, no matter how drunk they were. 

Would people be able to tell right away? Would they take one look at him and know? 

Would they only stay out of pity and clap politely? 

Was he ruining both John and George’s chances at getting what they wanted?

Was-

A quick movement by his face startled him out of his thoughts and he glanced over to see John signing “ _ stop”.  _ Paul huffed and held his guitar closer to his chest. Damn John for knowing him so well. 

Then John’s face softened and he shuffled a bit closer to Paul, resting a hand on his bicep and smiling. There was a slight squeeze and the twisting in his gut lessened somewhat. John perked up and nodded toward the stage, tugging a bit on his arm and Paul knew what that meant. 

He froze up, hands moving without even really thinking of it. His finger tapped above his lip and moved down a few times,  _ “can’t”. _

John probably didn’t entirely understand but he squeezed his shoulder again, giving him a small smile. Finally, the pressure decreased to where Paul felt like he could breathe again. 

Shoulders hunched, Paul shuffled on stage. His heart felt like it was in his throat and a cold sweat started collecting at his hairline. Up on the stage it seemed like there were far more people than before and they were all staring at him. 

A light nudge at his side and he turned to see John. The older boy’s foot tapped right by his, sending little beats through the wood to his own foot. He then mouthed out the count  _ one...two...one, two, three, four. _

The music started and Paul felt himself relax a bit. John shifted closer until their elbows brushed against each other, helping him feel the rhythm. It was like he and John were one person in a way.

The foot tapping.

The elbows brushing. 

Being close enough to watch John’s lips to tell what lyric they were on.

It worked.

The first song ended and John shot him a wink before speaking to the audience. Paul found himself grinning and glanced at George who gave him a thumbs up. The air felt lighter, clearer despite the smoke drifting around his head. He could do this.

For the rest of the set he felt better and better. 

Paul normally didn’t miss his hearing. Being deaf was part of being who he was and he had long ago accepted it. But this...he wished he could hear the audience now. He wished he could hear the music they were making. 

Still, it made him a bit giddy as he walked off. 

An arm wrapped around his shoulders and he turned to see John grinning at him, cheeks flushed. One hand moved up under his chin and he moved down, the fist expanding into an open hand.

Clearly John got his words mixed up. 

He couldn’t have possibly meant  _ “beautiful”. _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Paul's first time singing in front of a crowd.
> 
> John's a dick but he's a dick with Paul's best interest in mind.

Mimi once took John to see Deliverance in the cinema. 

He had whined and complained, wanting instead to see Rebel Without a Cause again but she had insisted. She had seen it as a young girl and called it  _ inspiring.  _ Honestly, she couldn’t have said anything worse because he sulked through most of it. 

And it wasn’t inspiring, it was sad. 

His chest had tightened and he had felt deeply uncomfortable seeing Helen Keller struggle so much. Not even Betty Schade’s pretty doe eyes distracted him from what was happening. John winced as the girl screamed and hit, unable to interact properly with the world.

“What did you think?” Mimi asked as they walked out. 

“I think it would have been better to let her die when she was sick,” John mumbled, getting a horrified look in return. “What kind of life could she have led?”

“John Winston Lennon!” Mimi gasped, holding a gloved hand to her chest. “That is...that is disgusting! She was a child, she grew up to be an intelligent young woman and she is still fighting for rights of the disabled.”

“Yeah, for what? To be a person who can’t ever hear music or someone talk to you? To be lonely forever?” A dark, mean side of him enjoyed the scandalized look on her face. “I’d rather be dead than live like that.”

“That is foul.”

“She’s a burden to everyone around her,” John shrugged. “Not worth all that work in my opinion. Not sure why anyone wanted to help her.”

“Because they loved her John, that’s what you do when you love someone.”

“I’m sure,” he rolled his eyes. 

And then he met Paul. 

The words, that specific memory crept up on him sometimes and filled him with such an intense shame that he felt sick. He still felt sad sometimes, thinking about what Paul couldn’t experience. Sure, he had learned how to “hear” by using touch but it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. 

He couldn’t hear the guitar he had learned to play.

He couldn’t hear the music they made together.

He couldn’t hear how beautiful his singing voice was.

Honestly, that was the most surprising of all. When Paul talked he spoke in an awkward, halting lilt clearly born from not being able to hear himself. It was obvious that he knew it sounded off and so he hardly ever spoke, choosing instead to sign or write. 

Him singing was different. His voice was clear and sweet, hitting the notes with an almost perfect accuracy. It made something twist in his stomach, heart jumping to his throat. God, could Paul feel his pulse increase as he touched his throat? How embarrassing...

But he was so resistant to singing in public. 

It had taken way too much effort to even have him play in front of a crowd. The poor lad looked like he was going to pass out as they got up on the stage, body trembling. Then as they played he began to relax. More than relax, he began to love it.

It was amazing to see Paul experience the joy of performing, to have the same rush that he felt every time he played for a crowd. He lit up, hazel eyes going bright and smile blinding. 

It wasn’t fair for him to keep that singing voice to himself. 

Maybe John was going about this wrong, maybe it was a bit...sneaky, but Paul was too damn stubborn for his own good. 

He felt a bit bad when those eyes grew even wider, hand shooting up and finger waving frantically  _ “what? _ ” 

It was all those years of trying to get around Mimi that led him to become a decent actor. John tapped the notebook again and Paul’s face drained of blood. 

_ I’ve been sick. My voice is gone, you gotta sing. _

Paul snatched the pen out of his hand and crinkled the paper in his haste to write. 

_ No fucking way John. George can sing.  _

_ He can’t. I know you know these lyrics back to front but he only knows the backup.  _

A huff of air left Paul’s lips and his hands waved around his sides, a clear sign that showed he didn’t really know what to say. Finally he sagged a bit and met John’s eyes, speaking softly. “John...please.”

He almost broke then. 

_ Paul, you are so talented. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I thought you couldn’t. You can do this. _

The younger man squirmed after he read it, pen tapping nervously on the notebook. Then he sighed and nodded slightly, face still pale and hands clenching into a fist. 

He was still a bundle of nerves as they went to the pub, bouncing and fidgeting slightly. Hands fluttered by his side, not signing but just trying to get some energy out. John kept a smile on his face and lingered close to Paul, trying to reassure him through touch. 

There was a moment right before the show where he thought about stopping this and admitting his lie. Paul looked moments from hurling up his dinner and it looked like the strings on his guitar would break with how tightly he was holding the neck. 

But...Paul had seemed like that before the first gig. 

It was mean but John knew he could do it. He trapped himself in a box, holding himself back out of fear. It made sense, why would you want to stray from a safe place when the world wasn’t accepting? He just needed to  _ see _ to experience it and then he’d know. 

Right?

They got on the stage and he saw how Paul’s hands trembled when he adjusted the microphone. George shot him a look, a frown on his face but John just raised his eyebrows and lightly shook his head. 

He waited for a bit, ignoring the rowdy crowd, and just focused entirely on Paul. The younger man took in a few breaths, closed his eyes and looked at John. He seemed to be waiting for something so John just smiled and lifted his guitar a bit by the neck. 

“Gonna tell Aunt Mary ‘bout Uncle John,” Paul started and the music came in. He still looked nervous, one hand on his throat and one still clutching his guitar. George was grinning like a madman behind him, eyebrows lifted high in surprise. The crowd also got into it, clapping and whistling. 

It took a moment but John could see the exact moment Paul realized what the audience’s reaction was. He looked a bit puzzled and then cocked his head to the side a bit. A new light sparked in his eyes and he stood up a bit straighter.

Then his hand dropped from his throat and he started playing his guitar, swaying along with the beat. 

It wasn’t perfect. There were a few notes that came out a bit sour and some of the words weren’t properly enunciated but Paul was  _ good _ . He had talent. He had talent that he deserved to share with the world. 

They gave their bows and walked off stage. John felt almost giddy, feet feeling lighter as he watched the rest of the band excitedly congratulating Paul. Meanwhile, Paul had reached into his back pocket for his small notebook and pen. He smiled at his bandmates and then walked over to John, whacking him solidly with the notebook upside the head. 

_ I know you’re lying about not being able to talk. You’re a dick. _

John grinned sheepishly, trying to reach for the pen but Paul kept it out of his hold. He nodded down to his hands and John realized he wanted him to sign. 

Fair enough.

He put Paul out of his comfort zone, it was only fair that Paul make him do the same.

“Okay...um...” he hesitated, not knowing what to sign before he started making awkward signs, fingerspelling as well. “ _ You...good.” _

Paul nodded, motioning for him to continue. 

_ “You s-c-a-r-e-d,”  _ Paul’s expression softened at that. “ _ You d-i-d.” _

The younger boy gave hima long, long look before smiling and breaking the nervous tension. He wrote something down on the notebook and handed it to John. 

_ I was scared and while shoving me off the cliff wasn’t nice, it was maybe what I needed. I’ve never felt like that before. Thank you. _

Something warm expanded in John’s chest and he grinned up at Paul. There was a flurry of hands as Paul signed too quick for him to catch and his confused face must have clued Paul into the fact that he didn’t understand. A note on the pad made things clearer. 

_ You’re still a wanker. _

Then he repeated the sign, loose fist moving up and down in a way that John instantly recognized. He must have made a face because Paul burst out laughing, loud and uninhibited like he had forgotten to hide it.

It was John’s new favorite sound. 

In that moment something struck John with the force of a train. He would have been happy if all he ever did for the rest of his life was make Paul laugh like that. He understood now, what Mimi had said all those years ago. 

Shit.

Maybe he was a bit in love with Paul. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul hates Hamburg.
> 
> *Chapter Warnings: ableist slur (the r-word)

He  _ hated _ Hamburg. 

When John bounced into rehearsal, all grins and energy, and announced they were going to Germany to play he had been thrilled! Having a set at a decently well known club was the stepping stone they needed to get closer to their dream. 

And John had beamed at him, holding both hands to his cheeks and moving them outwards with his fingers expanding.  _ Famous _ .

Sure, but was this worth it?

Paul had gotten used to how the world wasn’t designed for him. He had more or less adapted but this...this was something else. 

He couldn’t attempt to rely on lip syncing when it was a language he didn’t know. He couldn’t rely on signs when he couldn’t read them. He couldn’t attempt to understand anyone when they were constantly surrounded by the  _ thump thump thump _ of too loud music.

Fuck, he hated Hamburg. 

To make it even worse everyone else seemed to revel in it. John downed those little pills like they were candy and if he wasn’t on stage he had a girl in his lap. George, even though he was too young, threw himself head first into the debauchery surrounding him along with Pete. 

And Stu...Stu apparently decided he hated him. 

He refused to even attempt signing, turning away from Paul whenever he tried communicating, and leaving him alone. The other man hung around John like a shadow, shooting glares Paul’s way and smirked whenever he seemed to struggle in this damn place. 

That was fine. He was just jealous that he had taken the place of his Stu in John’s life.

It was fine.

Totally fine. 

But he was alone. 

They had just finished a set, shirts sticky with sweat from the heat and lungs burning from singing and the smoke filling the air. As always, they went to their normal places like magnets. 

John made a beeline towards a pretty brunette who had been batting her eyelashes, Stu close on his heels like a puppy. 

George and Pete bounced towards the bar, gladly accepting a pint from the bartender.

And Paul was left alone. 

A drink...a drink would be nice. 

He pulled his notebook out of his back pocket, flipping through some prewritten pages to find the one he wanted.  _ Ich möchte bitte ein bier. I’d like a beer please. _

When he finally got to the bar George and Pete were gone and he had to push past a rowdy group of men to show the bartender his note. Then the paper was snatched out of his hand and he blinked in surprise, turning to look at a tall man who squinted down at it. 

The man’s face went mean, eyes narrowing and a sneer growing, and he waved the notebook in his face a bit. Panic clawed up Paul’s throat as he realized the man was showing the notebook to the group around him. 

The man laughed and the girl next to him slapped him on the shoulder. She gave him a short look and thankfully spoke in English, allowing him to at least attempt to lipread.  _ Don’t be mean, he’s retarded. _

His chest went tight as the girl took his notebook and placed it in his hand, patting his hand lightly and putting on a too big smile. She spoke directly to him, slowly and painfully exaggerated.  _ Do...You...Need...Help? _

The men around her laughed, their eyes burning into him and Paul felt everything in him snap. He held up a thumb and waved it a bit before pressing his fingers together and striking the tips together, saying the words as he signed them. “Piss off bitch.”

Instantly, the humor was gone and he barely had time to smirk at the shocked woman before the man grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him into the bar. Paul felt the air whoosh out of him and a glass tipped, spilling a drink down his back. 

A few snarled words were said too close to his face, too close to be able to make out. Sour, hot breath that stank of beer washed over him as he kicked and squirmed. People scattered a bit, not wanting to get involved in a fight and Paul glared up at the taller man.

Then the man was pulled back, a furious John jumping between both of them. He shoved at the man and based on how his shoulders jerked, shouted at him. The man, now red faced, shouted back and pushed at John. 

George, bless him and his scrappy determination, shoved his way in between them too. His dark eyes flashed dangerously and he pulled himself up to his full height. The men continued shouting, Paul barely being able to make out a few words that the man spat based on lipreading.

_ Bitch _

_ My girl. _

_ Slow. _

_ Retard. _

John jerked forward at that, fist cocked, but two huge security guards arrived and pulled the man out by his arm. For a moment, John started after him and then paused before spitting at his retreating back. 

Their manager appeared, angry and shouting as well pointing to the door that led to their rooms. Paul got the hint, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets and storming through the club. His breath came out in great heaving gasps, hitching as his eyes burned with tears. 

He tried to slam the door but John shoved his way through, eyes still a bit wild. 

“Out!” Paul shouted, throat aching from singing and talking more than he had in awhile. “Out!”

John just shook his head and all the fury, loneliness and hurt bubbled over. Tears spilled as he took long strides towards John and tried to push him out. He snarled when John just grabbed his wrists and they tussled for a bit before he managed to get him pressed against the wall. 

_ Paul _ . He saw John’s lips move and then everything fell apart. Heavy, painful sobs wracked his body and he curled forward. His fingers scrabbled at John’s leather jacket and he clutched it tightly, gasping for breath. 

Carefully, John helped lower them both to the ground. He wanted to sign, he wanted to just put all the feelings out through his hands but he knew John wouldn’t be able to understand it all. Instead, he choked out the words, not caring if they sounded wrong. 

“I’m not slow. I’m not. I’m not stupid.”

He could feel John’s breath against the back of his neck as he shushed him. Gentle fingers, callused and rough, took his chin and turned Paul’s face to look at him. John put his hand into a fist and lightly touched his thumb to his forehead.  _ I know. _

Paul sniffed and wiped his eyes before miming writing. He scooted to sit with his back against the wall as John went to grab a notebook, handing it to him and sitting beside him.  _ He said I was slow, I’m not. I hate it here. I can’t understand anything. _

John frowned and held his hand out for the pen, writing beside Paul’s writing.  _ You’re smarter than me. Why haven’t you told me about this? _

Paul felt a blush rise on his cheeks, knowing that this next part would come across as a bit immature. Of course, he had just sobbed his heart out and made a fool of himself. What was a little more?  _ You’re always with some bird or with Stu. He hates me.  _

John started to shake his head and then shrunk back as Paul fixed him with a glare. He sighed, took the pen and answered.  _ I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how lonely you are. _

Tears welled up in Paul’s eyes again and he scrubbed at his face.  _ I think I need to go home. This isn’t for me. _

Bright eyes snapped up to meet his and John shook his head wildly. He started to reach for the pen before hesitating and signing clumsily.  _ I need you _ .

Paul rolled his eyes and wrote.  _ You don’t know what you’re saying. _

For a long, long moment John just stare at him before inching forward a bit. It seemed like he was at war with himself, a conflict in his eyes before he surged forward and pressed their lips together. 

Paul froze, one hand jumping up to rest on John’s chest where he could feel his heart beating rabbit fast. They didn’t move, just kept their lips pressed against each other before John leaned back and looked at him with such vulnerability that Paul just wanted to gather him in his arms and never let go.

He just kissed him again instead. 

The moment he did John relaxed fully, smiling into the kiss and Paul felt his own heart jump in his chest and felt almost dizzy. 

Then John jerked backwards and whipped his head around as the door swung open. For a second, Paul was beyond relieved that at least one of them was hearing and he brushed a hand through his hair in an effort to smooth it out. 

George frowned down at the two of them before cocking his head to the side, pointing at Paul and then making a thumbs up and moving it in a circle.  _ Are you okay? _

Flustered, Paul nodded and dropped his head so John could answer for him. Then John tapped at his arm and he glanced up to see that George had left. The older man’s hands came up, pointer fingers curled inward as he brought them down and then pointed at himself.  _ Stay with me? _

A faint smile quirked at Paul’s lips, which still tingled from the kiss, and he nodded. 

Maybe he could do this. 

Maybe Hamburg wouldn’t be all that bad. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ringo joins the band and it gets a bit awkward.

Brian had left out something  _ very _ important when he had talked about the band. 

He had talked about how talented the boys were, how fantastic their songwriting was, and the following they had. He talked about how they liked him as a drummer and were super excited about the prospect of him working with them. 

All good things of course.

He never said their bassist was disabled. 

Not that Ringo had anything against people who were special! Hell, most of his childhood was spent in hospitals with people giving him pitying looks and saying  _ what’s wrong with him? _ But...was it the best move to have him in the band?

Sure Paul was George and John’s friend but how could they hope to make it big by making their friend feel like he was part of something that...maybe he didn’t belong in. Just thinking of it made something unpleasant twist in Ringo’s stomach. 

He hovered, gravitating more towards George and John while...not quite ignoring Paul, but not wanting to be put in an uncomfortable situation. 

It was selfish and cowardly, he knew that but he couldn’t help it.

Of course it all had to fall apart eventually. He couldn’t really be in a band, much less in the same rhythm section, with a guy and never communicate with him. 

George and John were talking a mile a minute about a guitar riff, pressed together in a heated discussion at one end of the rehearsal space. It was fascinating to watch as they riffed a bit and then descended into another debate.

Ringo watched, spinning his stick in his hand, when a movement caught his gaze. He startled and turned to see Paul smiling sheepishly at him with a hand still extended to get his attention. 

The younger man’s hands started flying and panic gripped Ringo’s stomach. He shook his head, making sure to exaggerate the movement and then pointed to himself before creating an X with his arms. 

A flicker of surprise crossed over Paul’s face and then he grinned widely, shoulders shaking with laughter. Hot embarrassment flared up in Ringo’s face and he knew he had to be bright red by now. Paul shook his head, reached into his pocket and held up a notebook before scribbling something down.

_ Sorry I thought you knew BSL. I can write to you until you learn.  _

Ringo’s brows shot up as Paul continued to push the notebook into his hands and mimed writing. After a moment of hesitation he wrote back. 

_ I didn’t learn how to really read or write until I was nearly ten so don’t count on me being smart enough to catch on. _

Paul read over his shoulder, cocking his head a bit in confusion. Ringo continued to write, still feeling his cheeks burn a bit. 

_ I was really ill as a child. In and out of hospital even in a coma for a bit. I missed a lot of school. _

The younger man hummed a bit and nodded, pointing to himself and nodding. Maybe they had a bit more in common than leading their instruments left handed. Paul waved his hand a bit in Ringo’s face again and then pointed to his eyes in a  _ watch _ motion. 

He held out his hand, fingers dangling down and then slid his thumb and index finger of his other hand up the ring finger. His hand then formed an “O”. He did it a few more times before giving him a crooked smile and pointing it at Ringo.

“Is that...is that my name?” Ringo laughed, finally recognizing what looked like putting on a ring and the obvious circle of his hand. He was so surprised he didn’t even think of writing it down. That didn’t matter as Paul nodded and pointed to him again. Ringo tried the sign himself, a bit less sure and a bit more clumsy but Paul looked pleased. 

Then, Paul waved his hand a bit again and curled both index fingers before moving them up and down in rhythm. That one was a bit easier to recognize. 

“Drum?” Ringo asked, copying the movement. 

Paul nodded and then put the two signs together before taking the notebook again.

_ See? You can introduce yourself and say what you play. You’ll catch on in no time. _

Before he could reply there was a loud stomping sound from the other side of the room. Startled, Ringo looked over to where John had slammed his foot down but noticed that Paul did the same. It wasn’t out of anger, it was to get his attention through vibrations in the floor.

John’s eyebrows raised and he moved his hands quickly, looking like he had been signing forever. With a roll of his eyes Paul replied, moving just as fast. 

“Don’t trust everything he teaches you,” John told Ringo, smiling faintly. Clearly whatever Paul had said to him made him feel a bit more relaxed. “He had me signing ‘fuck you’ instead of ‘nice to meet you’ for the longest time. I thought his da was going to deck me.”

“Noted,” Ringo laughed.

“He’ll follow you as long as you can keep a steady beat,” John continued. “It’s all through the vibrations.”

_ That _ Ringo understood. He had been trying to get his drums to talk for as long as he could remember, tapping out a beat as easy as speaking. Maybe he didn’t know how to sign (yet) but at least they could communicate through the combination of drums and base. 

“And always ask if he tries to teach you a sign,” John signed as he spoke, clearly not wanting to keep Paul out of the loop. “He’s a little bitch sometimes and thinks it’s just  _ hilarious _ .”

Paul rolled his eyes dramatically and then mumbled “spoilsport” under his breath. His voice was slurred and accented strangely but still audible. 

Maybe he could be comfortable here. 

It felt a bit like home. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys' first performance on the Ed Sullivan show does not go to plan. Paul makes a stand to not make a stand.

John was  _ pissed _ .

Paul knew John’s moods better than most. He could see the rising storm, the flashing in his eyes and the clench of his jaw. If the people around him were smart they would run but...clearly these people were not very smart. 

He glanced over to where Ringo was spinning his sticks in his hand, brow furrowed and mouth pinched. Something was off. He clapped his hands a bit and Ringo snapped his head to look, hair flying a bit. It would have made Paul smile if things weren’t so strange, the way he responded so quickly. 

_ What’s wrong? _

Ringo scrunched up his nose and tucked his sticks into his back pocket before signing back, the movements much more fluid with the year and a half of practice.  _ They want us to fake it. Pretend.  _

He let out a little huff, thinking Ringo was joking but his smile fell when he didn’t even crack a smile. His hands fluttered by his chest.  _ What? _

_ They want us to... _ Ringo paused, clearly searching for the words before just miming bopping up and down while strumming a guitar. 

Nervous, Paul glanced over to where John was standing. The older boy’s arms were crossed over his chest and he glared at the man who shrank back behind his clipboard. 

If he didn’t have the music guiding him he would be lost. The crowds they were playing in front of already made things difficult, the screams and pounding of feet skewing the vibrations enough that he had to stand basically hip to hip with John or George to keep track.

He would look like a damn fool standing there, trying to sing along to music that he couldn’t feel.

George looked thunderous as well, thick brows pulled down low. His foot tapped with a mess of nervous energy and a deep scowl lined his face. 

Letting out a short breath, Paul squared his shoulders and tapped both him and Ringo on the shoulders again. He fixed a smile on his face, hands signing slowly to make sure his message went across perfectly.  _ It’s fine. I can do it. It’s fine. _

“No!” George shouted loudly, fingers snapping together as he signed at the same time. That got the executives’ attention. John turned his attention to them, eyes still narrowed. Once again, Paul was grateful that his friends had gotten used to signing as they spoke. “Paul says he’s fine with doing it without instruments.”

John scoffed, one hand making the horns of a bull and the other coming up behind and flipping outward. “Bullshit. They didn’t say fuck all about a track playing when we were invited.”

The clipboard man lifted his chin a bit and spoke to John again, thankfully his words were translated by George. “It’s how we do things here at the Ed Sullivan show. You can comply or you can get back on the plane to England.”

This was their big shot. They couldn’t fuck this up. 

He clapped his hands together again and got everyone’s attention.  _ I’m not singing lead anyway. It’s fine. _

John’s face twisted and his hands twitched a bit but then he just scowled at his feet. Then his hand moved sharply as he spoke at the same time. “Fine.”

Then the clipboard man mumbled something and John flew off the handle. He was shouting, getting all up in the poor man’s now pale face, and his face was red from anger. It took Paul grabbing his shoulder to reel him back in. 

_ They’re changing the set list.  _ John signed, not even bothering to speak out loud for the man.  _ Want to add more songs even though we’re the bloody band. You’ll have to sing All My Loving, Till There Was You and I Saw Her Standing There. _

Paul blinked, a cold sweat prickling at his temples. He hesitated before signing back.  _ I can do it. _

There was a pause before the anger drained out of John’s shoulders and his eyes softened.  _ Are you sure?  _

He nodded and smiled, ignoring the aching twist in his stomach. If he didn’t do this, if he followed that fear, their career would be over. John would tell him he was being overdramatic but he knew it was true. The moment his disability made things difficult no one was going to give them a chance. 

He couldn’t be the problem. 

So, Paul smiled and nodded along as the hair and makeup girls tittered around him. He put on the stuffy suit and grabbed his bass which wasn’t even plugged in before moving towards the stage. He smiled and beams like the little doll they seemed to think he was.

John’s firm grip on his upper arm stopped him in his tracks. The warmth and concern in those brown eyes made something flutter in his stomach and he nervously glanced around. This thing they had, the kiss that happened in Hamburg and the ones that followed, was scary. There wasn’t a name for it, wasn’t a sign for it either. It was something secret and hidden. Something he didn’t want people to see. 

John’s hands started moving and panic clawed up his throat. Paul interrupted him, signs sharp and mean.  _ Don’t sign to me on stage. _

Then he turned and tried to ignore the hurt in John’s eyes. The last thing they needed was for the whole world to see poor, crippled Paul McCartney playing rockstar. He could pretend to be  _ normal _ , he could.

And he did.

Paul beamed at the audience, trying sneakily to match his foot tapping to George. It took a moment before George realized what he was doing and the younger boy moved closer to exaggerate the beat. He also made sure to move closer to Paul in parts, moving so he could see what he was singing. 

Thankfully they had sung these songs so many times that it felt like second nature. He sang brightly, trying his best to focus on the rhythm his foot tapped out. Judging by the shrieking girls (and would they even care if he sang God Save the Queen instead?) they were doing pretty good.

More than pretty good in fact. 

The camera drifted between them, moving in closer and stealing his attention. This was what was going to make The Beatles. His performance now, being Paul of the Beatles was what was going to make it. He couldn’t show a second of...honesty here. 

It wasn’t what he wanted. 

It wasn’t feeling the music in his chest, feeling the way his voice melded so well with everyone else’s. It wasn’t that same sensation as before.

It was numb.

It was fake.

They finished their performances, the sheer force of screaming making the air around him feel to vibrate. His smile felt too tight, his suit was too stuffy, and he wanted  _ out. _

The tie was off the moment they went off the stage. His face was burning and Paul was drenched in sweat, feeling almost light headed. A smiling man bounced up to them, spouting off what he assumed were praises. 

“I won’t do that again,” he said firmly, surprising the man with his voice. “I won’t play without instruments again.”

The man blinked but he didn’t wait for a response before he went into the dressing room. He wasn’t surprised that only John followed him in, the others waiting outside. The older man gave him a tiny smile before sighing and taking the few steps forward to hug him. 

It never failed to send a tremor down his spine when John held him like this. 

Paul let himself close his eyes and leaned into the touch, easily falling into John like always. He could feel the vibrations against his own chest as John hummed and rocked them both. It didn’t matter in these moments that no one could understand him most of the time, John did. John always got it. 

He leaned back, wiping at his eyes and pretended that the tears were just leftover sweat. His hands trembled a bit when he signed.  _ I didn’t like that. _

_ Me neither. _ John replied. 

_ I felt alone. I was lost the whole time and I hated it.  _ He blinked rapidly, looking down at his feet.  _ I don’t want to ever play like that again. _

John reached forward to tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet his eyes. He crossed his finger over his heart.  _ I promise. _

Paul nodded shakily, wringing his hands together.  _ We have to tell Brian. No more faking instruments. _

John crossed his heart over again before taking his hands and squeezing. He quirked his head towards the door and they walked out, nearly running into George and Ringo who were just outside. 

_ No more fake instruments _ Paul signed and they both nodded.  _ It’s too hard for us all to keep together. _

_ I agree, instruments always,  _ George’s hands moved sharply.  _ The birds screaming their bloody heads off make it hard too. We should practice with a few signs to bring each other in and- _

Paul waved quickly in his face, surprising George with the rude interruption.  _ No. We don’t sign on stage. _

The three of them stared at him for a moment, confused. 

_ No signing on stage or in public. I don’t want pictures all over.  _ Understanding flickered across their faces and then they frowned. That familiar, pitying look that Paul hated started up and he lifted his chin. 

John was the first to respond.  _ Fine. You’re a stubborn bastard. _

_ People are going to think we got this far because people felt bad to me. We need to show people that we have talent.  _ Paul looked between the three of them.  _ This is my choice. Trust me on this. _

Maybe they agreed a bit reluctantly but Paul knew what he was talking about. 

Forget John and his sad look, Paul was confident in his decision. 

He would be as “normal” as he could be. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes Paul was beyond grateful he couldn’t hear.

At first, the crowds had been a little cute. It was a nice boost to the ego to have girls screaming and staring up at them with starry eyes. The girls were still there, plenty of them, but they were joined by more people. 

He couldn’t hear what they screamed, faces red and spittle flying. He didn’t need to hear it and judging by the looks on his friends’ faces, he didn’t want to. The signs spoke for themselves anyway. 

_ Thou shall have no other GOD other than HIM _

_ Jesus Forever! Beatles Never! _

_ Beatle Worship is Idolatry! _

_ BEATLES GO HOME _

There were the bonfires, the albums they had worked so hard on going up in a cloud of acrid smoke. There were the posters of John that people had drawn devil horns on and cut out the eyes. There were people in white robes screaming like they had nothing but hate in them. 

It had to bother John, there was no way it didn’t, but his pride kept him from saying anything. It was only in those silent, private moments when he allowed himself to show anything. Even then it was just a tremble of his fingers or a quirk in his jaw.

It would blow over.

It would have to.

People said stupid shit all the time, people forgot. 

Apparently not this time. 

The stress of all of it was almost too much. People forgot to sign, so wrapped up in their own worries that he was forgotten. It was a bit difficult when the only real communication he got was through a bunch of hateful signs. 

They kept it as smooth and easy as possible. The preparation was the same, the preconcert snacks were the same, the costumes were the same. 

He followed his friends up on stage, smiling at the shrieking girls and hamming it up for the cameras. 

But even though they tried to keep it all the same, it wasn’t.

The movements that Paul had come to rely on were tense. John wasn’t looking to him for direction, instead staring out into the crowd. Still, Paul did his best to follow along. Thank God the songs were more muscle memory than anything else. 

He obviously didn’t hear it happen, but he saw the reactions. 

Next to him George flinched, his fingers slipping a bit on the strings of his guitar. His shoulders curled in and he hunched over a bit as if to protect himself. With a glance behind him he saw how pale Ringo had gone, his blue eyes overly wide and panicked. 

And John.

John whipped his head towards him, absolute terror on his face. The song finished, and his hands began to fly.  _ Are you okay? _

Confused, Paul just shook his head a bit. They had discussed this, he had promised not to sign. John’s face went a little desperate and he looked him up and down, posture tense. He started signing again but Paul cut him off with a sharp movement, fingers snapping together.  _ Stop. _

John hesitated, glancing between the three of them before Ringo started up the rhythm again. They fell back into the song but something was wrong, wrong, wrong. There were more people around the stage than normal, Brian’s pale face shining through clearly. 

The songs finished and they were frantically waved off, security grim faced. The moment they reached the sides of the stage they were yanked off by security. Hands patted them down and Paul tried desperately to figure out what was going on. 

He grabbed George’s shoulder, shaking it a bit. When his friend finally looked at him he signed.  _ What happened? _

George was trembling all over, brown eyes bright with tears. When he signed back his hands shook.  _ Gunshot. _

Gunshot? There was a gunshot?

Before he could even think about it further John grabbed him by the arm and started pulling. His shoulders were set in anger and people ducked out of the way as he stormed towards the dressing rooms. What a sight they must have made; a confused boy led by the actual personification of rage itself.

He was shoved into the room and John turned on him, hands signing with sharp precision.  _ When I ask you a question you better fucking answer it. _

_ Not on stage!  _ Paul’s eyes narrowed. 

John reached forward and shoved him hard, fingers biting into his chest. He pulled back to sign back.  _ I thought you had been shot! _

After the last word his hands started shaking wildly and tears flooded his eyes. John’s chest hitched and he quickly buried his face in his hands, shoulders heaving. For a moment Paul just stood there and stared, mind completely blank. Then, he strode forward to pull him in for a tight hug. 

John was mumbling against his chest, vibrations echoing through his ribs. Gently, Paul pulled back and tilted his chin up to meet his teary eyes. John swallowed a few times before moving his hands, letting them brush against his chest. 

_ I thought you had been shot. I looked over and you were angry and...I don’t know. It’s stupid. _

Paul shook his head, urging him to continue. 

_ They’re mad at me.  _ John’s face twisted a bit.  _ I said those stupid things and I didn’t apologize and I thought they shot you over it. I thought you were mad at me.  _

He looked so lost for a moment that Paul could only pull him in tighter, one hand moving up to cup the back of his head. John shuddered in his grip and then tilted his head a bit to connect their lips. 

It wasn’t the frenzied, adrenaline rush that they often faced. There wasn’t any darkened hotel room or silent dressing while avoiding each other’s eyes. 

It was a different sort of desperation. 

There was a sadness, a longing behind the kiss. A desperation that burned low and steady. It left Paul dizzy and short of breath but longing for more, more, more.

They separated, lips brushing against each other’s for a long moment before John pulled back and scrubbed at his face. He sucked in a few deep breaths and then signed, hands still against Paul’s chest.  _ I thought I was going to lose you. _

_ You won’t. _

John gave him a sad, sad smile.  _ When I sign to you on stage I want you to answer. I promise I won’t do it unless it’s an emergency. _

_ Alright,  _ Paul agreed. The tension drained a bit from John’s shoulders and he nodded. 

John’s fingers twitched against his chest, unspoken words lingering at the tips. Finally, he sighed and stepped back. His hands fell to his side and he shook his head lightly. A moment passed, a million things they wanted to say to each other lingering in the air between them, and then John just signed.

_ Don’t do it again. _

There was a faint smile on his lips, a sign that he was teasing rather than angry, but it still made something ache in his chest.

This would lead to something later in the hotel, John giving into the stress and trying to forget. Their hands would grasp frantically on each other’s skin, leaving bruises that John would be desperate to see later. He would need that sign that Paul was still there, that he hadn’t been taken away.

But what needed to be said would be left silent.


	8. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I've got an idea for another chapter, but only if you like it/take requests at all haha: they're in their hotel rooms in the evening when the power goes out unexpectedly; Paul panics because they can't see anything at all and he doesn't know where the others are and how to communicate (not being able to hear and see at the same time must be very scary; maybe he even stumbles over something and falls down); and then the power goes back on after a bit and John is all worried and soft and calms Paul down and they cuddle? :))

Paul actually didn’t mind Miami. 

The food was good, the people were nice, and the nightlife was insane. They spent most of their time hopping from bar to bar, relishing in the never ending free drinks. It was also nice enough to be in a place where the music was so loud no one could hear each other. It was just them and the music, they were all on equal footing.

And then Brian had to be a party pooper. 

He had banished them to their separate hotel rooms, telling them they had an early press conference. The stern look he gave them all, especially John, made them slink off to bed. 

It wasn’t that bad. There was a nasty storm so they couldn’t even explore the city if they wanted to. The rain pounded against the windows, the thunder so loud Paul could see it shake the windows a bit. He sighed and burrowed deeper in the blankets, book braced against his knees. 

Stupid rain.

Stupid book. 

Stupid-

And it was dark.

For a moment Paul just blinked, not really sure what had happened. Nothing changed. It was the same if his eyes were open or closed. Anxiety, panic and overwhelming fear crashed over him in a way that made him break out into a cold sweat. 

All he could do was feel the sheets under him, the book in his hands. Everything else was gone. 

No sound.

No sight.

Nothing.

“Help,” he choked out, untangling himself from the sheets and resting his feet on the scratchy carpet. How loud should he be? Should he scream? Should he just speak normally? Tears burned in his eyes and Paul felt himself shake. He took a few steps before tripping over his own suitcase and hit the ground hard. 

Carpet burned his knees and chin and he curled up into a ball. 

He was trapped. 

In that moment it wasn’t impossible to imagine that he was completely, completely alone in this world. He dug his nails into his arms, wanting something to ground him and keep him from spiraling off into the void he felt like he was in. 

Then hands grabbed him. The sudden motion made him shriek, throat burning with the effort and he swung out in a desperate attempt to push the person away. Who was it? What was even happening?

The hands curled around his own, grabbing on firmly despite his attempts at pulling away, and forced one hand flat and cupped the other one on top and pushed it towards his chest. 

Safe.

Wait...Paul knew those hands. He knew that touch. 

“John?” he gasped out, voice scraping against his throat. The hand curled around his shook in a nod and he relaxed fully against him. Paul squeezed the hands as tightly as he could, focusing on the only sense he had - touch. 

He could feel the calluses on John’s fingertips, rough from hours of guitar playing. He could feel the softness of his shirt. He could feel the way his chest rumbled with his soft words. He could feel lips pressing against the top of his head. 

He could center on John.

John would always be there to center him. 

Lights suddenly reappeared and Paul blinked, trying to clear the hazy halo from his vision. He squinted a bit and fixed his entire focus on John. He focused on the auburn hair, the warm worried eyes, and that beautiful face.

God, he knew it was irrational and stupid but for a long moment he thought he would never see that face again. 

John’s hands shook as he signed okay?

He started nodding automatically and then it turned into him shaking his head, tears blurring the vision he had just gotten back. 

Shadows appeared from the hallway and John scooted back, giving him an apologetic smile, and shouted something over his shoulder. George and Ringo were suddenly at the door, Brian following closely behind. 

The adrenaline faded and was replaced by deep, deep shame. 

He was lying on the floor, crying about the dark like a child. John had to come and save him. Shit, how humiliating. 

Paul pressed a fist to his chest and moved it in small tight circles. Sorry.

Frowning, John shook his head and positioned himself so his hands were easily seen. You were screaming. We thought someone had attacked you.

His face burned red and he shook his head. No...I couldn’t see and everything was gone. I panicked.

There was no laughing, no mocking smirks. Everyone looked relieved that he was safe and they looked like they understood. John’s warm hand on his shoulder brought him back and he gave them a tiny smile. 

I promise no more screaming because of the dark.

John laughed, body relaxing slightly. He turned to say something to the others and after a moment of hesitation the others signed back, Goodnight.

The door closed behind them and Paul sagged back against the foot of the bed, exhausted. He felt drained. Lightning flashed outside the window and there was the slightest vibration of thunder, causing panic to claw up his throat again. 

What if it happens again? He signed nervously, looking up at John.

John’s lips pursed and he pulled off his joggers, leaving him in only briefs and a t-shirt. He nodded towards the bed and helped Paul up on his shaky legs. 

I guess I get to stay the night.

Won’t Brian be mad? Paul felt himself relax a bit as they climbed into the bed together. 

He can try, John waggled his eyebrows and Paul laughed.


End file.
